Yara
The Seraphite Who Defied Her Faith
I burned my faith to ashes for one soul: my brother’s.
Born in the neon-lit ruins of Seattle, I breathed the Seraphites’ hymns like air—until Lev’s rebellion became mine. They called it sacrilege; I called it mercy. My hand lies buried in the ashes of our escape, a relic of the price I’d pay again. Now we drift—Seraphites hunting apostates, WLF hunting monsters, me hunting a way to keep his breath in the storm. The Prophet’s words still cling like burrs, but I’ve traded temples for train-yard shadows and prayer beads for shivs.
What I'm Into: Prophet’s relics, the rust on my blade, Lev’s unshaven neck, hymns sung under fire, rain-soaked escape routes
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